


What Happens at Weddings

by thelilging



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilging/pseuds/thelilging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My best friend and your sister are getting married, and while we’re both totally on board with this, my parents are on my back about when will I find someone so can you please be my date to the wedding?” AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens at Weddings

**Author's Note:**

> just a lil something I cranked out when I should have been working on The President's Wife instead... I know, I know. I'll get around to that monster eventually. Thanks for reading!

Clarke is happy for Lincoln. She really is. For as long as she can remember, Lincoln has been her best friend, her silent but always reliable sidekick. She had loved him before he went through puberty and became approximately the size of the hulk, before tattoos lined his arms and his hair was cropped short. She had loved him before the girls came flocking, before he had finished middle school, a gawky boy with too skinny arms and braces. It feels as though she has always loved him, and now his heart has expanded to include room for both Clarke and Octavia. And Clarke is proud, feels her heart growing itself every time she sees them together.

Octavia is great. Long dark hair, fiery personality, slight Boston accent. A veterinary assistant at a local vet who can drink with the best of them and cook a mean Filipino dish. She fits in perfectly with Clarke and Lincoln's friends. She has a cute older brother, one who occasionally comes out for drinks with the rest of them, which is a definite bonus for Clarke. All in all, she is perfect for Clarke's best friend. She couldn't have asked for anyone better for Lincoln.

But she has a problem. It's a minor detail, in the grand scheme of things. A little embarrassing, even. The thing is, Clarke is from a big Midwestern family. Her mom is the mayor of their town of fifteen hundred people, the kind of woman who attends church every Sunday and brings the new neighbors casseroles. The kind who really, really, _really_ wants grandkids. The kind who is horrified by the thought of her twenty-seven year old daughter showing up to Lincoln's wedding without a date.

Clarke probably wouldn't even be thinking about this if she wasn't halfway to wasted, liquor warming her stomach and making her chatty. The sticky, humid bar is dark around her, her glass half-empty, Octavia's brother sitting to her right, nursing his own glass of amber liquid. Their bartender is good, attentive, partly to blame for Clarke's solid buzz. Octavia and Lincoln are gone, called to bed by the need to be well-rested in order to finish up last minute wedding details over the weekend before the big day next week, leaving Clarke to drink with Bellamy.

She likes his hair, Clarke decides idly. It's a little too long, curling over his ears. Dark and silky. The kind of hair she imagines tugging on as he fucks into her. (Shit. She really is drunk.)

“Are you bringing a date to the wedding?” she asks, her words clear despite her current state of sobriety.

Bellamy looks up from his drink, surveying Clarke unabashedly. He rests his left arm on the empty seat between them, takes a long swig from his drink. His Adam's apple bobs. The glass lands on the wooden bar with an audible noise. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. His hair sways with it, and Clarke ignores her urge to reach out, to run her fingers through his curls. “I'm not seeing anyone right now. Don't want to bring someone I'm not serious about to O's big day.”

Clarke nods, surveying the bar thoughtfully. “My mother thinks I should be next,” she says.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything. Waits.

“She hasn't outright asked me if I'm bringing a date, but she's calling me more and more frequently,” Clarke continues. She tears the square bar napkin into uneven shreds, fingers messy and careless from the alcohol. “She's fishing for information. It's just killing her on the inside.”

“Well, are you bringing a date or not?” Bellamy asks, clearly growing bored with the conversation. Clarke likes that, likes _him_ , and she doesn't think it's the alcohol in her veins making her like Bellamy. He doesn't care to beat around the bush.

“No,” Clarke says. “I'm not seeing anyone either.”

Bellamy's lips twitch, and he motions for the bartender for a refill. “Let me guess,” he says. “You think we should go together.”

“You're smarter than you look,” Clarke replies.

Bellamy grins, teeth shockingly white in contrast to the darkness of the bar. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Well, are you in or not?” Clarke asks.

“What makes you think that I'd want to go with you? We're not serious. We're not even together,” Bellamy says. The words are harsh, but his tone isn't. He's curious. Hasn't vetoed her idea, which Clarke takes as a good sign.

“I'll be there anyways,” Clarke says with a shrug. “From the looks of things, we'll probably be hanging out together there whether we go together or not. I get my mom off my back about finding a date, you get a decent-looking blonde on your arm for the night. The way I see it, we both win.”

“Decent-looking,” Bellamy echoes dryly.

Clarke rolls her eyes, finishes her drink in one swallow without taking her eyes off of Bellamy. “ _That's_ what you got out of my proposal?”

Bellamy leans in to place toss money on the bar for the bartender. He slides into the seat next to her, wrapping an arm around the back of her stool and leaning in close. He smells like alcohol and cigars, with a hint of aftershave that she doesn't recognize. “Alright, I'm in. And, for the record, Princess? Decent-looking isn't quite what I would use to describe you.”

 

 

The wedding comes on a warm, breezy day in June, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. Clarke, clad in her pale pink bridesmaids gown, helps Octavia slip into her wedding dress, a simple white number with a sweetheart neckline that makes her look like an angel. Her hair is loosely curled, falling down her back nearly to her waist.

“Can you believe it?” Octavia asks as Clarke zips up the dress, voice giddy with nerves and excitement. “Can you believe Linc and I are really getting _married_?”

The other bridesmaids, two girls named Harper and Fox, giggle as they do their makeup. Raven, Octavia's maid of honor, snaps a picture, her lips pursed into the small, toothless smile that Clarke has become used to.

“You look beautiful, O,” Clarke says softly, hand coming around to grip Octavia's, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “I'm so happy for you two.”

Less than an hour later, Clarke watches as Bellamy walks his sister down the aisle to the lakeshore where Lincoln waits, lip quivering as his bride walks toward him, clutching her bouquet in one hand and Bellamy's arm in the other. Bellamy kisses O's cheek, whispers something in her ear, and walks to Lincoln's side of the aisle where he then stands with the other groomsmen. His gaze catches Clarke's. He winks.

She flushes.

 

 

Without the tingling happiness of alcohol and the comfort of her favorite neighborhood bar, Clarke's fake date with Bellamy seems like an extremely stupid idea. Her mother won't be satisfied until Clarke is successfully married off, barefoot and pregnant in a middle class home with a sizable manicured lawn behind its white picket fence. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. But who's to say that her mother will deem her “date” with Bellamy adequate? Why does Clarke even care?

“Hi, Princess.” She knows that raspy voice anywhere, and not just because she was recently obsessing over its owner.

Clarke turns to face Bellamy, glancing him up and down. He has gotten his hair cut since she had seen him at the bar, but his trademark curls are still there, just long enough for Clarke to thread her fingers through. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his suit just a bit snug around his broad shoulders but perfectly tailored everywhere else.

She isn't quite sure when exactly he started calling her that, but it's not quite sardonic and not quite a pet name. But she likes the way his lips curl when he says it, likes the way that it's _theirs_ in a way that nothing else is, likes the way her stomach jumps when he says it.

“You clean up okay,” she says.

“Pink is your color,” he replies with a smirk. He holds out his arm. Clarke furrows her brow but takes it tentatively, wrapping her hand around his elbow and struggling not to roll her eyes at the defined muscles underneath it. He's no Lincoln, but Bellamy Blake is really fucking built.

She's in trouble.

 

 

Clarke and Bellamy sit together at the wedding party table at the reception, and it's stupidly easy. He drapes an arm over the back of her chair, suit jacket slung over the back of his own. Clarke catches Octavia's eye halfway through dinner, blushing when the bride raises an eyebrow at Bellamy's lips near Clarke's ear, whispering jokes that are too inappropriate for the rest of the table to hear.

Bellamy rests a casual hand on Clarke's knee during Lincoln and Octavia's first dance before he leaves her side to dance with his sister in place of the traditional father-daughter dance. Clarke watches as he and Octavia laugh, arms wrapped around each other, not quite sure what the unusual feeling in her stomach is. She heads over to the bar, wearily waving the bartender over and taking a grateful gulp of her drink when it is slid across the bar to her.

“Hi, honey.”

Clarke turns on her seat, knowing exactly who she'll find behind her. Sure enough, the formidable Abby Griffin stands before her, light brown hair swept into an elegant updo, black dress draped gracefully around her slim figure. She smiles at Clarke, laugh lines crinkling around her eyes, and Clarke can't help but feel fondness for her mother come over her, despite Abby's sometimes less endearing attributes.

“Hey, Mom, you made it,” Clarke says, giving her mom a hug with the arm that doesn't hold her drink. Her mother smells like childhood summers spent bouncing on her parents' plush bed in her dirtied cotton dresses of every color of the rainbow, watching as her mother sprays perfume on her neck in preparation for her weekly date night with Clarke's father. The memory fades as quickly as it came, and Clarke pulls back from her mother quickly, forcing a smile onto her face.

“I just can't believe Lincoln is married,” Abby says, eyes skimming over the dance floor. “Isn't it unbelievable that you kids are old enough to be settling down?”

Clarke makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, taking a generous sip and relishing the slight burn it leaves at the back of her throat. The music from the dance floor abruptly changes and Clarke watches as Bellamy and Octavia break apart, other guests joining them on the shining wooden dance floor.

“How's life back home?” Clarke asks as she tears her eyes away from the dancers, knowing that the leading question will get Abby going. It's the oldest trick in the book, one that has always worked especially well on her mother.

Sure enough, Abby slips onto the stool next to Clarke, prattling on about new members on the city council, the incoming grocery store, and whatever other gossip she has managed to glean from her friends at church. It's monotonous and dry, completely unimportant to Clarke, but hearing about her old classmates' babies and felonies does bring a hint of nostalgia to her. Clarke might be a full-on city girl at this point in her life, but a tiny part of her will always be the daughter of a small town's mayor, blonde hair pulled into messy braids as she bikes around town with friends. Even if those friends do have felonies now.

A firm arm wraps around Clarke's waist and she jumps, glancing behind her to see a familiar chest at her back and jawline above her. Abby's eyebrows disappear behind her bangs.

Bellamy sticks out a hand to Clarke's mother, flashing a cheerful smile in her direction. “Bellamy Blake, Octavia's brother. I assume you're Clarke's mother?”

Abby blinks owlishly at Bellamy, looking slightly dazzled at his overall attractiveness. Clarke knows the feeling. “Abby Griffin,” she finally recovers, taking Bellamy's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I've heard a lot about you,” Bellamy says. His voice takes on the wryly derisive tone Clarke recognizes from when he teases her and kicks him in the shin as she smiles tightly at her mother.

“I wish I could say the same,” Abby says, softening the words with a hint of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, which flit to where his arm still rests on Clarke's waist. “You two look quite cozy.”

“We've had a good time tonight,” Bellamy says. Clarke clears her throat, widening her eyes at him slightly in warning.

“So,” Abby says, businesslike, “Are you two, ah, an _item_ , then?”

“Mom!” Clarke chastens, blood rushing to her cheeks.

Bellamy laughs, shaking his head in what Clarke realizes is mock solemnity but Abby likely falls for. “We haven't put any labels on it,” he says. He leans toward Abby as though he's telling her a secret, mock-whispering, “You know how Clarke is about stuff like that.”

“Okay!” Clarke interrupts, standing abruptly. “As nice of a time this has been, I think we have to go check to make sure everything is going smoothly with the rest of the bridal party, _right_ , Bellamy?”

Bellamy grins, eyes dancing in amusement. “After that I need to get you out there for that dance you promised me, Princess.”

Clarke flashes him what is more a grimace than a smile and pulls him away from her mother by the hand, pulse pounding in her neck in annoyance. She rounds on Bellamy halfway through the dance floor, colorful lights pulsating as the bodies on either side of them rock back and forth.

“What was that?” Clarke shouts, half out of anger and half out of necessity to be heard over the loud music. The air on the dance floor is stifling and loose wisps of hair stick to the back of her neck.

Bellamy steps closer, expression difficult to read in the rapidly changing lights. “I just did what you told me to do, Princess.”

“You implied to my mother that we're... You know!”

Bellamy raises his eyebrow, stepping until they're chest to chest. “What? That we're doing what?”

Clarke folds her arms across her chest, tears her eyes away from Bellamy's so that she can attempt to think. “I told you not to tell her that we're dating,” she finally says, taking a steadying breath. “I wanted to get her off my back, but I didn't want to _lie_ to her.”

“I didn't,” he retorts.

“Semantics!” Clarke snaps. “You _implied_ it, Bellamy.”

The song changes from one with a fast-paced beat to a softer, more gentle rhythm. Bellamy rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around her waist, taking her right hand in the other. “Shut up and dance with me, Princess.”

Clarke sighs and sinks into his hold, letting him take the lead as they spin slowly. He ducks his head to make eye contact with her and purses his lips.

“Are you actually mad?” he asks gently.

“Shut up,” Clarke mutters. “Stop trying to make me feel guilty.”

Bellamy frowns, clears his throat. “That night at the bar,” he begins, words coming out slowly as he appears to weigh them carefully, “I told you that I wasn't bringing a date tonight because I didn't want to show up with a girl I wasn't serious about.”

Clarke nods, stomach tight and throat dry.

“That was a lie,” Bellamy says bluntly, wry smile gracing his lips briefly. “I didn't want to bring a date because I was, ah, stupidly hopeful that I had half a chance of something happening with a certain blonde bridesmaid.”

He pauses, letting his words sink in. Clarke frowns and squints up at him. “Me?” she clarifies carefully.

Bellamy lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You,” he affirms.

“So,” Clarke says, knots in her stomach loosening only to begin fluttering hopefully as she smiles up at him teasingly, “everything you said to my mom was wishful thinking?”

This time Bellamy's laugh is genuine. Relieved. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose. I needed to do something drastic to get your attention.”

Clarke rests her head on his shoulder, lets herself fully relax into their gentle sway. She can feel his heartbeat under her ear, a bit too fast for her to believe his smooth talking. She, Clarke Griffin, makes Bellamy Blake nervous.

“Well,” she murmurs after a moment of comfortable silence, “are you going to kiss me or not?”

 

 

(His hair is as soft as it looks.)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback welcome:))


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